


Keys to the Kingdom

by buttercups3



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Bass first person pov, F/M, I blame Bass' snark, M/M, MM, Multi, PWP, Rachel's prison/room attached to Bass' office, Republic years, debauchery n' stuff, fmm, there's something almost cracky about the tone here?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-02
Updated: 2014-03-02
Packaged: 2018-01-14 08:22:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1259488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttercups3/pseuds/buttercups3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Caught in a compromising position with Miles, Bass decides to let Rachel in for a test he's not even aware he's giving.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keys to the Kingdom

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lovesrogue36](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovesrogue36/gifts).



> I dedicate this ridiculous story to T for obvious reasons. xx

My knuckles grind into the mahogany of my desk to the near-ripping point, and shit, I’ve wadded Lt. Gunter’s report in my left fist – I actually _needed_ that. But it’s hard to care about anything with this wet warmth taking me all the way in and his tongue, flat, a bit rough, working into the ridges of my cock, tracing my veins, which I swear to God aren’t working. They sure as hell aren’t clearing away any blood.

Miles is stuffed under my desk like a secret, me in my chair with my legs gaping. Miles secured the doors to my office, but if one of my guards _could_ venture in, he wouldn’t even be able to see his commanding general down on his knees, pumping his president’s dick. But he’d see me, sweaty, pale, open, moaning.

“Uh, Miles!” I whimper like I’m in a goddamn porno, and yeah, this looks tawdry, but it doesn’t feel it. I mean, I’m swimming in some fucking teary limbo I hope Miles doesn’t notice. (I wager he’s preoccupied.) We’ve been warring for days – even throwing shit at each other – and finally, that little spark in his dark eyes just exploded, and he shoved my chair back, thudded onto his knees, and wrenched open my uniform’s buttons – at least one of which sailed into space – and then my pants, tugging out the extravagant hard on I had no idea I even had. I suppose it could have been spontaneous, because his hands are so fucking giant, they can hold all of you at once and possibly transmit electricity. I’m just saying. If Miles hasn’t held your dick, you can’t even imagine it.

“Ffffuuu…” I begin but can’t finish, because he’s jacking me with so much spit cascading through his fingers, it’s pooling in my bunched-up pants and boxers, which he’s barely bothered to pull down enough to gain access to my hole. Christ, he keeps sliding in there and finger-fucking what feels like my central nervous system. When he digs in this time, I complain, “Chrrrist, you asshole. Not so – _uh_ – hard.” I don’t mean it though. I love it, and he knows it; so he doesn’t relent in the slightest. 

There’s a rattling to the right of me I don’t bother to place – probably just squirrels in the attic. _What?_ This isn’t that shithole Miles and I shacked up in the mid-2000s on leave from the Marines. Don’t care. Don’t fucking care.

“So close, Miles. Yeah, yeah. Like that.” I mean, his finger is straight up _nerve_ -fucking my insides and his lips are milking my tip. Does anything matter?

I plunge my hands into the glossy, chestnut hair, thrusting deeper into his mouth than is probably comfortable. I can tell because he crushes the base of my cock for a moment in punishment. _Ow._ I pull back the slightest and feel the tightness of his throat ease. Then he really commits for the win, like he’s general of my cock and this is his last stand. He fists my balls – who the hell knew that feels amazing when you're this far gone? – then mouth fucks me with astounding control of his gag reflex.

“Suuuuh…Miles, Miles,” I idiotically blather his name like I’m his property and lift both my hands to my mouth to stem the embarrassing tide of affection, before I tell him how much I love him, because I do, I fucking do. He’s perfect, and we’re prefect, and I fucking love you, Miles Matheson, no matter how much shit you throw at me…

With a violent heave of muscle, I gush into his mouth. And right in the middle of my insane display of twitching and unencumbered moaning, I hear the doors fling open to my _right_ – oh holy hell. Rachel. Convenient that I forgot to lock her door. 

The telltale intrusion jolts Miles into an attempted, staggering stand, but he’s still under my desk and smacks sickeningly into wooden ceiling. My cock’s escaped his mouth, still coming – because this is the longest fucking orgasm ever – and I’m squirting onto his cheeks and into his hair, and he looks so damn angry and cute and sexy, and I’m worried about his poor head – I really am – but I’m in such goddamn ecstasy that I actually laugh. It only makes him scowl harder.

I cushion his head with my hand now so that he doesn’t injure himself further, rubbing the nasty bump that’s already crowning, while Miles whispers, “Shhhhhhiiiiit,” in utter misery.

Rachel has strode around to the front of the desk (to give us some privacy – hah, _right_ ) and narrows her pale eyes at me, her arms folded over supple cleavage, her pink lips pursed.

When I finally regain my composure, still caressing Miles’ head, my voice sounds flabby even to me: “Rachel. You startled Miles. I think he’s given himself a traumatic brain injury on my desk.” I glance down at him. Damn. His brown eyes are bright in that way you’ll tear up when you bash your skull hard enough. God, I just want to kiss him, hold him. Damn her for interrupting this. Yet, bizarrely, it all makes me laugh again.

Miles’ voice sears from below, “Bass, you fucking prick, did you not lock her door?”

Rachel grouses with impressive venom, “Bass never locks my door anymore. You two are such idiots, barking at each other for days, throwing what: lamps? Tumblers of whiskey and ice? But instead of succeeding in killing each other, now I’m being subjected to the lurid yowls of Bass getting off! For God’s sake. I’ve had enough. Kill me, throw me in a cell, but _enough_ of this.”

Wow. I guess she’s angry.

“You jealous?” I venture, trying to help the reluctant Miles extract himself from under the desk. He’s scarlet from face to neck, and, Jesus, drenched in my jizz. It’s on his lips and cheeks and flicked in his hair like snow. Once he’s on his feet, towering above me with an expression so sour-grapes that I find myself chuckling, I begin to right my own clothes. Well, fuck, apparently I’ve lost three buttons. Goddammit, Miles. Is that kind of ferocity really necessary? My eyes drift down the front of Miles’ pants to the hugest visible boner on God’s green earth. Aw. No wonder he’s so pissed.

Rachel answers the question I’ve forgotten I’ve asked. “What if I said yes?” her pointy elbows emphasize her indignation. Wait…what?

“Huh?” 

“Yes, I’m jealous. Clearly. Or I wouldn’t have come in when I knew you were having the snot fucked out of you.”

I stutter for a moment. Jesus, she’s delightfully crass when she wants to be. Maybe she fits in better with us than I thought. Before I realize what I’ve done, I’ve offered him to her: “Well be my guest,” I gesture at Miles’ magnificent bulge. “Far be it for me to get in the way of your needs.”

When the hell did I get so stupid? Miles has been wanting to fuck her for months (years). And now when he’s horny as hell, interrupted mid-fuck, and all wound up from sparring, I give him over to her? Of course he’ll bite. And I can see right away from the flash of desire in her pristine eyes that she wants him too. 

Rachel makes the first move, since Miles is frozen like a doe on the highway before a crash. Great, fucking great. She’s on him, hands all over his erection, tongue in his mouth. His hands migrate down from her jaw to her perky ass, and then lift her into his arms. She encircles his waist with her legs, and he carries her to the long table, depositing her there. Kneeling, she disrobes entirely – gorgeous cream skin, swollen rose-kissed breasts, and a beautiful V of dark blonde curls with just a hint of pink cunt beneath.

Christ, now I’m jealous of him too. My cock stirs weakly, but it’s only been a few minutes. I’m locked into watching this show with a limp dick and an avalanche of regret.

Miles doesn’t even bother to disrobe, just unloops his belt, unzips his pants, and hops on the table on his back – _thunk_ , _thunk_ go his boot-soles on the wood. There’s something so arrogantly _him_ about it, it inexplicably vexes me – like I know what she must be feeling, making herself all vulnerable, and him not giving an inch of reciprocation. But no, Bass, you don’t _want_ him to open himself up to her. Fuck. She’s already under my skin, confusing things.

Miles pulls her by the hand so that she’s straddling his hips, her naked pussy no doubt soaking through his pants. Then his head lolls toward me, and if you can fucking believe it, he orders, “Bass. Condom.”

I scoff, disgruntled, but before I know it, I’m actually sliding open a drawer and removing a foil square, my legs carrying me unbidden over to the lewd scene unfolding on my long table, where I meet with my staff to discuss the fate of the world and receive distinguished guests. Hell. I reach for Miles' immense cock and knead it, Miles thrusting privately into my hand for a few moments. Okay, not so privately.

“Uh-hem,” Rachel clears her throat and puts out her palm for the condom. 

Fuck. Fine. I brought this on myself. I’m so petulant as I turn away from the sight of her ripping open the foil and unrolling the rubber down his length, that I’m almost considering leaving, when cracked, calloused fingers intertwine in mine and pull me back.

“No, stay,” comes Miles’ strained voice, and I have to swallow a hard lump. Miles wants me even when he has her.

I turn back to Rachel, knees planted on either side of Miles’ thin hips as she’s bouncing on him, her breasts buoyant and free. Miles hasn’t let go of my fingers, so I figure I’ve got to involve myself somehow. Finally, I decide on kneeling between Miles’ legs behind her. I reach forward to compress her breasts with my forearms, enjoying the delicate squish against my wrist hair and bone.

She’s really driving him now, so I slide one hand down to rub her off, every now and then bumping up against Miles’ covered, exerting cock.

“Mmmm, Bass harder,” Rachel begs. Fuck, it’s good to hear my name from her lips.

“Uhh, Bass finish her, I’m gonna come,” Miles croaks, and Christ does that sound good to me, too. What the hell are they doing to me? I’m absurdly melty just from hearing them say my name. 

“Say my name again, you assholes,” I relish.

“Bass, Bass,” Rachel gasps, while Miles rumbles, “You fucking cockwad, Bass, I said finish her off!”

My arm is cramping up and my fingers are a blur on her cunt, Miles driving high and deep, and then she’s fluttering against me, strangling into her release. Miles must be coming, too, he’s thrusting like a jackhammer, and I hold her down so he can finish hard.

Miles grabs for my hand again, and we interlock fingers, him still straining into his waning climax. Damn, he’s gorgeous the way he just rests his tongue between his lips.

Rachel slides her fingers into Miles' hair and catches in some of my crust. “I have a suggestion, boys,” she says. “Fuck more, fight less.” 

I heave a chuckle. If only.

Miles cracks an eye under an arched eyebrow. “Are we that loud?”

“Yes. In both cases,” Rachel sighs and pries my lingering hand away from her breast.

I wish she hadn’t said that, because now the likeliest outcome is that Miles will no longer fuck _or_ fight with me in my office. He’ll just avoid me. He worries constantly about what the men think of us. Armies are as gossipy as women’s book clubs. I don’t know how he could possibly be naïve enough to believe the men don’t know that (a) mommy and daddy are fighting and (b) we suck each other’s dicks and plumb each other’s assholes.

I release my fingers from Miles and realize they’re still wet from Rachel. Well, maybe she is right. If we’re all hell bent on destruction, we might as well ride out on a wave of debauchery.

“Great, so who wants to get trashed on all this early twentieth-century champagne Jeremy nicked from a rich douche bag’s cellar?”

Miles vaguely raises a hand, while pulling off Rachel and discarding his condom. I watch him like he’s a TV show, because, I mean, I just love the way his cum looks, and then snap my head around to Rachel.

She appears a bit disgusted with my suggestion. “Don’t you two have a kingdom to run?”

“Yes, but we generally run it drunk,” I explain honestly.

She shakes her head. “Okay, I’m in.”

I pause and cock my head at her. Does she mean the champagne or the kingdom? Christ, Rachel Matheson. Well, I’m the one who left her room unlocked.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Keys to Their Castles in the Air](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1263841) by [lovesrogue36](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovesrogue36/pseuds/lovesrogue36)




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